You Broke My Heart
by Sarcastically-Nerdy
Summary: Owen swears everything seemed to slow down. The building shaking as Curt turned to look at him. Curt's eyes widening as he lost his balance. Curt reaching out for the railing. The look of fear in his eyes as his hand met air, the railing nearly 8 meters below. Curt's body falling out of the opening. What if Curt was the one that fell?
1. Running Out of Time

Owen tried not to fumble his gun, knowing that if he dropped it he wasn't getting it back. Besides, going back for it was a Curt move, and Owen prided himself on being the smarter of the two. He had an easy way to decide what would be a smart choice: simply think, "_What would Curt do in this situation?" _and do the exact opposite. It hasn't failed him yet.

But, back to the situation at hand. Owen and Curt were being chased down the poorly lit hallway by about a dozen Russian soldiers. Owen's gun wasn't loaded, the shots used to make 15 a dozen. He didn't look over at Curt to see what he was doing. Again, he was the smarter of the two.

As if his thoughts had provoked him, Curt called to him in a breathless voice, "We're running out of time!"

Owen didn't respond. Curt had known him long enough to have an idea of what his answer would be. Deadpan with an expletive or two thrown in.

Two lefts and a right passed before Owen lost track of where they had planted the bomb. After the right, Owen and Curt entered a medium-sized room that was being partially used as storage. Up a set of metal stairs was a metal door, light shining underneath and, oh, this was the room next to the one with the bomb in it. That's not good.

Owen and Curt were back to back, surrounded by armed Russians. Looking at each other out of the sides of their eyes, the two nodded and in sync, raised their hands in surrender. Owen quickly ran through a few different options on how to escape.

Option one: Let the Russians take them wherever they take trespassers, and knock out the guards (there would be less than there are currently).

Problem: He would be separated from Curt, and there was no guarantee that he would be able to find him before the bomb went off. Also, he had a feeling the Russians dealt with trespassers… quickly.

Option two: Throw his gun as a distraction and lunge at the nearest guard. Then he and Curt could take on the remaining guards.

Problem: That sounded like something Curt would do and Owen tried to avoid making those choices.

Option three-

Owen's mental checklist was interrupted by a deafening explosion that shook the room. The Russians fell over, Owen just barely able to keep his footing. As the Russians were distracted, Owen turned to Curt and called his name in questioning.

Curt turned to him, guilt barely visible. "I lied, I set the timer to three minutes!" Owen sighed; that was such a Curt thing to do it almost caused him pain. The Russians were still on the floor, turning to each other, trying to find out what had happened. They started to gather their wits (or whatever they had in place of wit). Curt grabbed his arm. "Time to go!"

Owen followed as Curt sprinted up the stairs. The building shook again as Owen climbed the first set, two more above his head. He heard a _clang _and a broken piece of the stairway railing fell past him.

"Careful Curt!" Owen called ahead as he rounded the second platform. Curt was at the third (and final) platform. He continued to move as he looked back at Owen with a cheeky smile. He opened his mouth to respond (probably some half thought out retort) when everything went to shit.

Owen swears everything seemed to slow down. The building shaking as Curt turned to look at him. Curt's eyes widening as he lost his balance. Curt reaching out for the railing. The look of fear in his eyes as his hand met air, the railing nearly 8 meters below. Curt's body falling out of the opening. Racing up the few remaining steps. Curt's fingers brushing his. Curt mouthing 'I love you'. The loud _crack _of Curt's body hitting the concrete. Seeing his twisted, twitching form, blood pooling underneath. Hitting the railing behind him. Racing up the stairs as the building shook and pieces of the roof fell.

He reached the door, slamming it open. He didn't stop running until he reached the clearing with the helicopter waiting for him. He hopped in, pulling the door closed, hearing the sound of a building collapsing. With Curt in it. He buckled himself in and took the offered mic set. He closed his eyes, tried not to cry.

He tried to rationalize, something he was very good at. There was no way he would've been able to grab Curt and carry him outside safely without getting them both killed. And even if he did, Curt likely wouldn't have survived his injuries, and if he did, he likely would've been paralyzed. Yeah, leaving him was the best option, for both of them.

At least, that's what Owen told himself as the helicopter took off, carrying him back to the meetup spot.

Alone.


	2. Abandoned, Betrayed Me

The first thing Curt noticed when he woke up was the bright light shine just on the edge of his vision. The second thing was that the bed he was on was incredibly soft. The beds at the medical wing of the Secret Service were itchy and- wait. If he wasn't at the Secret Service, where was he?

He shot up in his bed, quickly regretted that decision as his head screamed in pain. And his back. And his arms. And, well, everything else. Clearly whoever had taken him hadn't bothered to re-administer whatever concoction of pain meds they were giving him. Either they weren't expecting him to wake up so soon or they wanted him to suffer. His money was on the latter. He tended not to think too highly of people who kidnap him (at least, he was pretty sure they had kidnapped him).

He rested against the pillows behind him (damnit, they were comfortable). He sighed and closed his eyes. With the condition of his body, he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Speak of, what had happened? Curt had a fuzzy memory; Owen telling him something, he didn't remember what, he lost balance, the building was exploding!, and he, he fell.

Curt's eyes snapped open. He'd fucking fell 20 some feet onto hard concrete. No wonder he was in pain. But how did he survive the explosion? Owen wasn't stupid enough to go back for him (though the thought of Owen bravely carrying him out of the warehouse made him feel warm). Now Curt had two unanswered questions, and Curt didn't like that at all.

The door to the room opened slowly. He turned his head, frown on his face, as he took in the newcomer.

Male. White. Tall, 5'11" maybe 6'. Dirty blond hair cut short and swept to the left. Curt couldn't see his eye color (not that it matters, but details were nice). He was wearing a white button-up, grey vest, black tie, black pants, and brown loafers. Very professional. Curt noticed that this guy wasn't lacking in the muscle department, but they weren't overly obnoxious. Curt hated to admit it, but this guy was kind of hot. And vaguely familiar. Like he's seen him in a dream or in passing. Curt's frown deepened at the thought.

As if he knew what Curt was thinking, the man smiled. A friendly smile that showed his teeth.

"Hello Mr. Mega," the man greeted pleasantly. He gently closed the door behind him and walked over to the chair next to Curt's bed. Curt noted that the chair was placed out of arm's reach (see, Owen, he wasn't that dense). "You probably have a lot of questions-"

"Who the hell are you? Where am I?" he demanded, subtly be damned. He was in a strange place with a strange man and he was in pain. All he wanted was to go home and take a nap. Preferably with Owen.

The man chuckled, unfazed, and something itched in the back of his head. That sounded familiar. Had he met this guy at a bar before the mission? No, he would remember him. Though, Curt reasoned, his memory was pretty fuzzy, even details from the mission were hard to fully recall.

"My name, Mr. Mega, is Jonathan Smith." Okay, that sounded even more familiar. What the hell? "As for your location, well, you'll find out in due time. As for now, I've come to-"

"What the hell happened to me?"

Okay, Curt, tune it down, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Owen spoke, chances are he'll tell you what you want to know anyways.

"Well, Mr. Mega," Jonathan shifted in his chair, "we rescued you from the warehouse you were in after your partner abandoned you."

"Owen didn't abandon me!" Curt exclaimed, though not with much ferocity he wanted.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. "Didn't he though?"

"No! He wouldn't have been able to get me and get us both out in time!"

"Really? Because that is exactly what we did Mr. Mega. Have you thought that, perhaps, your partner decided you weren't worth saving? After all, he had what he needed to complete his mission, no?"

"How, how-" Curt's head began to pound. He groaned and reached up and gripped the hair at the side of his head. Did Owen really just leave him?

No! Owen would never!

But then… why was he here?

Curt fought with himself, his logical side knowing that Owen cared for him and wouldn't leave him he if could've saved him. But his emotional side was yelling that he didn't care enough to even try. Curt can't recall Owen even pausing to consider helping him. He just ran.

Owen really left him.

That didn't seem right. Nothing seemed right. Normally Curt would fight against the notion harder, he had full confidence in Owen. But right now Curt felt tired like he'd already gone through this mental fight multiple times. He didn't have the energy to fight. And besides, the more he thought about it, the more obvious it became.

Owen had left him to die in order to save his own ass.

Curt felt the tears falling down his cheeks before he could stop him. Oh, he was crying. No, he was sobbing. Full-on heart-wrenching sobs were ripped from his throat. Curt distantly felt a warm hand settle on his neck and pull him into a solid chest.

Was Jonathan comforting him?

He heard hushed reassurance being whispered to him and, yup, he was comforting him. Part of Curt's mind (again, the one that sounded like Owen) was yelling at him to pull away, but Curt was pissed at Owen right now and the heat from Jonathan felt nice, so he leaned in and allowed himself comfort.

He could barely make out what Jonathan was saying. "There… about time… stronger than you look… everything will be okay."

And Curt believed him.


	3. Warmest Hello to the Coldest Goodbye

Owen wrapped his jacket tighter around him as a cold breeze blew past. With a deep inhale he sucked in the smoke from his lite cigarette. He held his breath for a moment before releasing, watching the smoke drift off. He was leaning against the smooth exterior of MI6.

After returning from his mission and informing his superiors of his partial success (he got the info but lost his partner) he had called Cynthia. It was… less than pleasant. He told her what had happened after she had stopped demanding Curt's location. She was silent for a few moments before curses flew out of her mouth. She had called her secretary, Susan, and it was silent again (though he was pretty sure he'd heard muffled screaming). When she came back, voice rougher than before, she told Owen she was sorry and that she was sending agents to sweep the rubble for Curt's body. Owen asked if he could be the one to inform Mrs. Mega, figuring it was best he heard it from him since he was the last person to see Curt. Cynthia agreed and hung up.

After that he left the building, feeling the itching need for a cigarette and a bottle of whiskey. Unfortunately, he wasn't done with ruining people's day, so the drink would have to wait. No, after he was done with his cigarette he had to do the hardest call: Mrs. Mega. Admittedly, he should do it face to face but if he did, he'd probably break down crying and he had a reputation to maintain. So after the bound-to-be heart-wrenching conversation, he planned on drinking a bottle of whiskey he had at home and passing out.

It was a good thing he didn't have to work tomorrow. Or the rest of the week. And the week after. He had used all the vacation time he had built up (about a month) to mourn (and attend Curt's funeral). Of course, he wasn't happy with the prolonged vacation, much preferring to bury his sorrow with copious amounts of work. But his boss, Malcolm, had threatened him with an even longer forced leave (three bloody months) if he didn't take more than a week off. So Owen decided to finally use the vacation time he'd piled up.

Owen pushed off the wall, dropping the bud of the cigarette to the ground, putting it out with the toe of his shoe. There was no point in stalling, Mrs. Mega deserved to know. Despite the time difference, Owen knew that she would be up, hovering anxiously by the phone. Curt always called his mom after a mission, typically just a quick ' Hi, I'm alive, (mostly) uninjured. Love you too. Bye." In fact, at the beginning of their partnership, Owen had poked fun at him for it but soon backed off at the withering glare Curt gave him. It was rare for Curt Mega to be serious when off the job, so Owen decided that the subject was off-limits (plus later on Mrs. Mega started asking about him which was… nice).

Shutting the door to the office Malcolm had given him specifically so he could make the calls in peace, Owen sighed and grabbed a box of tissues, just in case.

Slumping into the chair, Owen picked up the phone and put in Mrs. Mega's number. He listened to it ring. Once. Twice. Click .

"Hello?"

"'Ello Mrs. Mega," Owen greeted heavily.

"Oh, Owen!" Mrs. Mega exclaimed, making Owen feel even worse. "Thank God one of you boys called me, I was just about goin' insane with worry. How are you, dear?"

"I'm… okay, Mrs. Mega."

"Well, that's just fantastic! Quick question, why'd you call instead of Curt? Not that I don't love hearing from you!"

Owen sighed, it was time, "Well, Mrs. Mega-"

"Oh let me guess," Mrs. Mega interrupted, "Curtis is probably fast asleep. Too tired to even call his mother. I'm always telling him not to work so hard, silly boy. He's always been like that though. You're probably-"

"He's dead," Owen cut in, unable to stand listening to Mrs. Mega go on, unaware.

"W-What? Owen dear, could you repeat that? I thought I heard you say Curt is d-d-"

"I'm sorry Mrs. Mega," Owen apologized, eyes tearing up. He heard Mrs. Mega gasp and start sobbing.

"Oh, not my Curtis! No, God no! Please." Mrs. Mega broke down crying with an anguished scream. Tears started to roll down Owen's cheeks but he quickly wiped them away with a tissue. He let Mrs. Mega cry, not wanting to interrupt. After a few minutes, her sobs quieted to sniffles with the occasional quiet sob.

"Mrs. Mega?" Owen asked, making sure she was listening. She hummed her response and even that was watery. "I-I I'm so sorry. It was my fault. If I had-"

"No." Mrs. Mega said firmly. "Don't you dare blame this on yourself. It won't do anything but ruin your life. No, Curt knew the dangers, we all did. I just didn't think…."

"He always pretended to be invincible, it was hard to remember he wasn't," Owen filled in with a teary smile, his heart twisting with the past tense.

"Oh Curtis," Mrs. Mega mumbled fondly. She cleared her throat. "Well I-I suppose I'll be planning his-his funeral instead of his wedding, huh." Owen sniffed and didn't reply. "Oh Owen," she cooed, "It's gonna be okay hun."

"Of course Mrs. Mega," he agreed, not up to arguing. After all, to her, he and Curt were just partners, just friends. "Would you like some company? I seem to have found myself with a quite of bit of vacation time."

"That would be lovely. Thank you, Owen."

"Think nothing of it, Mrs. Mega. I'll fly out in the morning. See you soon."

"See you soon."

Owen leaned back in his seat as he hung up his phone. Tears were still falling down his cheeks. What made it worse was that Mrs. Mega was so kind, it broke his heart all over again think about how she was alone now.

_Well,_ Owen thought_, I'll make sure she's never lonely again. For Curt's sake._

With that thought he stood up and marched out of the office, not sparing a glance at his coworkers' pitying stares. He had clothes to pack, tickets to buy, and whiskey to drink. There was no time to waste with false sympathies of people who didn't understand his plight.

He walked out of MI6, ready to be rid of its ringing phones and chattering workers if even just for a month. And when his month was up, he'd suck up his feelings and dive into his work.

It's hard to mourn when you're on a mission after all.


	4. Who Do You Trust?

Curt was sitting in a desk chair, one of ten placed around an oval conference table. On his left was Jonathan, smiling comfortably, and across from him were two severe-looking people, one man and one woman. Both were dressed to the nines, full suit and tie on both. The man had a file about an inch thick in front of him and he was perusing it casually. Curt knew the file was on him as he had seen a picture of him on the first page.

"So, Mr. Mega, I assume Mr. Smith here has told you our offer?" the woman asked her lips in a tight line.

He had. It had been nearly a week after he had realized that Owen had abandoned him (even think it caused a slight headache). Jonathan had been with him often, keeping him company while he healed. After a week had passed Jonathan had come in with a stack of papers, barely half an inch high. He passed them to Curt and _finally _explained where he was, who had saved him.

A group called Chimera. They were made up of wealthy people: politicians, actors, and various other people with money. Their goal? To make secrets a thing of the past. To move the world into a new age, an age where nobody was left in the dark, forgotten. No agencies, no secrets, no lies.

That last part struck Curt. His entire career was based on secrets and lies. Hell, he could name five secrets off the top of his head that he'd rather not have exposed (and if most of them had to do with Owen, oh well).

Jonathan told him that the leaders of Chimera wanted him to be an agent. And once the new world order was set, he would be near the top. Something of a law enforcer. All he had to do was swear loyalty of Chimera and tell them what he had learned in his years in the Secret Service.

Curt was hesitant. Jonathan seemed excited like he couldn't wait to work with Curt. Curt had a million and one questions. _How could he betray Cynthia? Would he have to see Owen again? What would he do? Would he get to see Jonathan?_

The last one shocked him the most. As if something in his mind was pulling, he felt his attraction to Jonathan grow. Jonathan didn't seem to notice, but he was a very hands-on person. Always touching Curt in some way, whether it was a hand on his back or sitting close enough for their thighs to be squished together. And every time, Curt's heart melted a little more. Curt was, of course, concerned. The man he loved had abandoned him, left him to die. Why wasn't he grieving more? Was Jonathan even gay? Wasn't like Curt could outright ask. Chances were that Chimera would kick him out (or kill him). But oddly enough, that was the least of his problems.

He had hesitated when Jonathan had asked him what he'd thought, brown eyes widened with curiosity (why was he so cute!). Normally if people wanted information out of him, they tortured him. Not have a ridiculously attractive guy outright ask him. So he was at a loss as what to do. But Jonathan had insisted and whenever Jonathan asked him to do something, Curt found it hard to say no. Jonathan had helped him, so it was only fair if Curt helped him.

Right?

Curt came out of his thoughts as Jonathan rested a hand on his shoulder, still smiling. What was going on? Oh, right. Meeting with top Chimera officials.

"Yes, he did," Curt confirmed, finally answering the women's question. The man finally finished his file, closing it with a hum.

"And? Do you accept?"

Curt looked at Jonathan desperately. He smiled and nodded, and Curt felt a little fuzzy at the gesture. Calmed down Curt turned to the awaiting officials, both of whom had a pleased glint in their eyes.

"Yes. I'll join Chimera."

Both smiled smug smirks. Jonathan squeezed his shoulder and gave him another smile. Curt relaxed into his seat.

"Good choice Mr. Mega," the man said. "You are going to help make the world a better, safer place."

Curt nodded. That was why he had agreed to this. If there were no agencies there would be no need for countless men and women to throw their lives on the lines and die (or almost die, in Curt's case). At least, that's what Jonathan told him.

Owen's face flashed in his mind. Smiling, laughing as he and Curt reminisced about old cases.

Who knows, maybe when the world is better Curt would forgive Owen, and they could be together again. Partners again.

The man pushed a small stack of papers towards him, opened up to the last page. "Just sign at the bottom, Mr. Mega."

He wanted to ask what was in the papers, but Jonathan handed him a pen and gestured to the paper, and Curt signed without thinking. It was probably nothing, Jonathan probably already explained everything in the papers. His job was the easiest.

The glint reappeared in the duo's eyes as the man retrieved the papers, putting them into his briefcase.

"Welcome to Chimera, Mr. Mega. Together, we will save the world."


	5. Do My Best Not to Cry Again

It's been one week since Curt died. Six days since Owen reached Mrs. Mega's home. Five days since Owen got so drunk that for the first time, he passed out. Four since the search for Curt's body was called off, not even a limb to be found. Three days since the funeral planning started. Two since Owen got plastered (again) after waking from a horrible nightmare. One since Owen and Mrs. Mega spent the day talking and remembering Curt. And today, today was the funeral.

Well, it wasn't exactly a traditional funeral, there was no casket. Or body. Since Curt's body wasn't found (there was too much rubble, it would've taken weeks to find) there was an urn filled with dust and rubble from the area where the room Curt fell in was. That way Mrs. Mega had something to bury. The service was at Mrs. Mega's home and only a few people were coming: Owen, Cynthia, Susan, and a few of Curt's coworkers that he considered friends. In total there were only about 10 people in attendance. Curt would've liked it that way (he disliked a number of his coworkers, no way he would've wanted them here). The service was simple, Mrs. Mega busted out her best chinaware and every picture of Curt she could find. Owen helped her make Curt's favorite dessert: apple pie. The other guests brought food too.

Everyone was sitting in Mrs. Mega's living room dressed nicely and in black. It was quiet as everyone ate. Owen was not paying much attention to his plate, instead, he was staring at a picture of Curt and him just before their first mission (Curt made them get a picture, said his mom would kill him otherwise). Owen felt himself smile at the memory.

"You okay over there Owen?" Mrs. Mega asked, concerned. Ever since Owen had gotten here, she had made sure he was okay. Own figured it was because she felt better mothering someone, almost as a way of distraction. Owen wasn't complaining.

"Of course Mrs. Mega," Owen replied smoothly, noting that the other occupants were looking at him curiously. "I was just remembering when this picture was taken. Curt insisted you would kill him if he didn't."

Everyone chuckled, even Mrs. Mega who had been melancholy all week.

"I remember that. That boy wouldn't do anything I asked unless I threatened him," Mrs. Mega said with a fond smile and a shake of her head.

"Huh, never worked with me," Cynthia recalled. "No matter what I said he'd do his own thing. Idiot."

This sparked something within the room. Everyone began talking about their memories with Curt and what inspired different pictures. Owen was silent mostly, preferring to listen and watch. He was also afraid that once he started talking, he might not stop. Or he might mention something… sensitive. But it seemed Mrs. Mega had other ideas.

"Owen dear, why don't you share something? You did do a lot of work with Curtis!" Mrs. Mega suggested a small smile on her face. Owen bit his lip in contemplation. He couldn't say no to Mrs. Mega so he had to choose his words carefully and leave out certain details.

"Well, there was this one mission in Brazil…"

Nearly two hours later the food was gone and the stories about Curt were finished. The room once again had a somber mood to it. It was time to bury Curt's urn. Mrs. Mega carefully picked it up as Owen grabbed a bouquet of differently colored roses and a few lilies. Mrs. Mega had wanted something colorful and believed that the recommendations of the florist were too bleak. Flowers were meant to happy, bright. Not depressing. So she got a rose in each color available (the rainbow and black and white) and white lilies (for a bit of tradition). The florist had tried to explain that flowers had meanings, and many of the meanings for roses were not appropriate for funerals. Mrs. Mega refused to listen. She said she didn't care, and she knew Curt wouldn't have cared either (and she was right about that). Owen agreed, but was curious about the different meanings, so he did some research (there was less time to have his mind wonder if he was constantly learning or working). Was it information he was ever going to use again? No. But it did give him an idea of which flower he wanted.

The group approached Curt's grave, a beautiful marble piece with an elegant inscription:

_Here lies Curtis Mega_

_A beloved son and friend, gone too soon_

_1930-1957_

Owen allowed himself to lament over the fact the Curt was so much more than a friend before pushing the thought away in favor of wrapping an arm around Mrs. Mega who'd just started to sob. A small hole was dug in front of the grave, a shovel and pile of dirt sitting next to it. Mrs. Mega handed the urn to Cynthia before collapsing onto her knees.

"Oh, Curtis!" Mrs. Mega cried, sobbing into her hands. Owen handed the flowers to Susan before lowering himself to the ground. He wrapped Mrs. Mega in a hug.

"It's going to be okay," he muttered. He offered reassurance as she cried, uncaring of the tears burning in his eyes. He'd cry later when he was alone in his room and was sure Mrs. Mega was asleep.

After a minute or so Mrs. Mea pulled away, eyes red. "Thank you, Owen, dear."

She stood up with Owen's help and put a strong face on. They continued. Cynthia handed the urn to Mrs. Mega who kissed it gently on the top and whispered her final goodbye before lowering into the grave. She straightened everyone took a moment of silence as the reality and finality of the situation finally came. Susan handed the bouquet back to Owen and he handed it to Mrs. Mega. She gave everyone a rose, uncaring of the color. Owen made sure to grab the blue one and Mrs. Mega was the only one with lilies, two of them. The other five lilies would be placed on Curt's grave. Mrs. Mega held her flowers close, wanting to go last. So Curt's other friends went first. Red, then yellow, then white, then lavender, then green, and then orange. Next was Susan with the black rose, the most fitting of the bunch. Then was Cynthia with a deep pink rose. Owen wondered if she knew her stuff and picked that one on purpose. She probably did.

The last rose was Owen's. A blue rose. _I'll always love you, Curt, _Owen thought before setting his rose down.

Mrs. Mega hesitated, not wanting to let go. Owen rested a hand on her shoulder with a sigh. "It's time Mrs. Mega."

She nodded sadly. "Oh Curtis, I hope you're happy where ever you are."

She set the lilies down.

After that everything passed quickly. Owen grabbed the shovel and let Mrs. Mega pour the first bit of dirt, tears streaming down her face the entire time. Owen then filled the hole, finally burying Curt. Soon after the guest left, Cynthia and Susan staying behind to help Mrs. Mega clean up and talk (about some policies in the Secret Service that apply when an agent dies on a job). Mrs. Mega insisted that Owen should go get some rest, he'd been up all day helping her. Owen didn't argue.

He went to the room he was temporarily calling his and sunk onto the bed. His eyes closed and he felt tears fall on is face. He didn't sob, just silently cried for his loss. For the loss of a partner. The loss of a friend. The loss of a lover.


	6. Memories Always Seem To Be Haunting Me

**A/N: May or may nor be a filler chapter...**

Curt was breathing heavily; his lungs gasping for more air, his heart beating fast, and his brow covered in sweat. When Jonathan had said that his training would be hard he'd had scoffed. Nothing could compare to the numerous times Owen kicked his ass.

No. Curt had promised himself not to think about that traitor. Just the thought of him sent a sharp pain through his skull. Almost like his brain couldn't handle the thought of him. Just another incentive not to think about him.

A hand extended in front of him, Jonathan's smug smile was staring down at him. With a scowl, Curt grabbed his hand and pulled himself to his feet. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist and caught the towel that Jonathan threw at him. He ran the towel down his face and exhaled a sigh.

"How is it that I still can't kick your ass after a year?"

Jonathan laughed, a booming noise, and replied, "Because I'm better than you?"

Curt scoffed and threw his towel at Jonathan's face. Jonathan's laugh quieted to a chuckle as he caught the towel. Jonathan walked over to Curt and threw his arm around his shoulder as the two walked to the showers. Curt's cheeks heated up at the thoughtless action and looked around, making sure no one was around.

Jonathan must've seen him looking because he asked in a taunting tone, "Paranoid Mega?"

Curt shoved Jonathan's arm off with a muttered, "Fuck off," and stocked into the locker room. He unlocked his locker and grabbed his clothes, a pair of black slacks, a white button-up, and his favorite black and red leather jacket. He also grabbed a bar of soap and a bottle of conditioner. Doing his best to ignore Jonathan looming over his shoulder, Curt walked into the shower room, placing his clothes in a nearby cubby. He took his sweat-soaked shirt off and threw it underneath the cubby his clean clothes were in.

"Are you going to watch me shower?"

He heard Jonathan chuckle in response as Curt slid his workout shorts down his legs and threw them into a pile with his shirt.

"Why? I thought you liked attention?"

With a scoff, Curt crossed his arms over his chest and faced Jonathan, only in his boxer. Jonathan was leaning against the doorway of the room, still fully dressed. Curt meet Jonathan's eyes and despite the intense stare, refused to look away. Jonathan smiled, bright teeth on display and Curt got the feeling of being prey as Jonathan walked forward. Curt stepped back until his back collided with cool tile, a shiver running through his body as Jonathan caged his body with his arms. Jonathan leaned in close, his lips mere centimeters away from Curt's.

Curt cleared his throat and spoke in a whisper, "No. Someone is going to see."

"Let them."

Jonathan closed the gap, their lips colliding. Curt felt… uncomfortable. Which was weird considering a very attractive man was kissing him. Maybe it was the fact that Jonathan had still kissed him even when he said no. Owen always respected his boundaries, content to cuddle if Curt didn't want to go any further. Owen never-

A splitting pain sang out from the base of Curt's skull. Curt groaned and fell to his knees, grasping his head. The pain was radiating throughout his head and wasn't letting up. He vaguely noted Jonathan sighing and kneeling next to him, muttering words he couldn't understand. The pain continued for what felt like years. Eventually, the pain lessened and Curt could make out someone saying his name.

"-urt? Curt! Damn, I really thought he-"

"Jonathan?" Curt gasped out, looking at Jonathan. Curt caught what looked like annoyance fade from Jonathan's face, turning into concern. It was so quick that Curt dismissed it as a trick of the light. Jonathan's hand moved to rub his back.

"Hey, Mega. You okay?"

"Headache."

Jonathan lifted an eyebrow in disbelief. "Hell of a headache. Knocked you off your feet."

Curt shrugged as the pain became just a resonance, lingering but nothing new. "I've had them before. It's been a while though. Usually not this bad either. I don't know why."

Jonathan nodded and helped Curt stand. "How about we go to the infirmary after a shower?"

Curt agreed with him and leaned against the wall, waiting for Jonathan to leave. When he didn't Curt asked, "Are you gonna watch?"

A lewd smile appeared on Jonathan's face. "I thought I'd stay, to help in case you fall again."

Curt rolled his eyes. "Perve." He turned to face the wall and slid his boxers off, throwing them at Jonathan when he catcalled him. He turned the shower on, the water starting luke-warm but heating up to nearly scalding, just the way Curt liked them. He bent his head under the spray and let the water run over him. He jumped when two arms wrapped around his waist, quickly turning his head to glare at a now naked Jonathan. "Still helping?"

"Thought you'd need help cleaning some harder to reach spots."

"How thoughtful," Curt murmured sarcastically.

"You know," Jonathan mutter lowly into his ear, "You 'ought to treat me with a little more respect. I am your superior after all."

"Really?"  
Curt was turned and pushed against the wall in the same position as before.

"Maybe it's time I taught you a lesson."


	7. Put This Drink Down, Turn My Life Around

Owen set the empty bottle down on the counter and rest his head in his crossed arms. He heaved a sigh and was still before he slammed a fist into the counter, shooting up with angry tears forming in the corner of his eye. He jumped off his seat and paced back and forth. His hair was a disheveled mess, his eyes red, clothes rumpled, and his breath stank of alcohol.

Today was the first anniversary of Curt's death. And Owen was handling it as well as a man who spent most of his life repressing his emotions could. By drinking copious amounts of alcohol and screaming into the nearest surface.

Was it healthy?

No, far from it.

But did it help?

...Not really but it was better than moping in bed all day.

Not for his liver though.

Owen threw his head back and let out a suffered sigh. The nightmares had receded over the months, but this morning (i.e. 2:30 am) he had woken in a cold sweat, Curt's voice echoing in his mind. But he had held strong and held back on his first drink… until 8.

He was struggling, okay?

Owen ran a hand down his face, grimacing at the rough stubbled that had formed. He really needed to shave but the alcohol had made his hands unsteady so he didn't trust himself with sharp objects.

Owen walked over to his ratty couch and slumped into the seat, hunching over his knees. His hands covered his eyes and flashes of Curt's face appeared. Curt smiling. Curt laughing. Curt flipping him off. Curt after their first time. Curt mouth 'I love you,' as he fell to his death…

"Fuck!" Owen cried out, his hands gripping his head as he shot up. His eyes narrowed on a flipped picture frame on the side table. Owen picked it up and sniffed back tears at Curt's smiling face. This was his birthday two years ago. Curt had forced him and a few of his friends to a bar to celebrate. In the picture Curt's cheeks were rosy and his arm was slung over his shoulder. He had been forced into a party hat and had confetti thrown at him right before this picture.

It was one of Owen's favorite memories.

Rage flashed through him and his grip on the frame tightened. His arm reared back, preparing to throw the picture across the room. He stopped at the last second because the phone in his kitchen rang loudly. Gently setting the picture face down, feeling guilty about nearly destroying it, Owen walked into his kitchen. The incessant ringing was giving him a headache so whoever was calling better have a good reason. He leaned against the wall and picked the phone up off the receiver.

"What?" he rumbled, politeness the farthest thing from his mind.

"Hello to you too Carvour."

"Oh, Malcolm!" Owen straightened his posture, a response that was natural at this point. Malcolm was a stickler for posture. He was known to give extra paperwork if you were caught slouching. And Owen hated paperwork. "How can I help you?"

"I know today is… today. But I need you to come in ASAP.," Malcolm answered, gravely serious.

"I'm, I'm not exactly 'work ready'," Owen admitted with a wince. His left hand came to rub the back of his neck, a nervous tick that he had learned from Curt.

"I don't care. Show up in a jumper for all I care. Just don't stink up the office."

_ Click_.

He hung up. Owen clenched his jaw in frustration. Malcolm was the one who forced him to take this week off, even threatening him with coffee runs if he showed up early. Now he was making Owen come in? Better be an apocalypse.

Owen marched to his room, grumbling obscenities, and pick the first semi-acceptable things he could find. Blue jeans, a green polo, and black sneakers. Good enough. In his bathroom, he ran his hand through his hair a few times before deeming it good enough. Then he brushed his teeth. Lastly, shaving. Owen looked from his razor to his hand and back, before deciding that he could live with stubble.

He grabbed his wallet, coat, keys before leaving his apartment. His next-door neighbor was opening her door and looked shocked to see him emerging. She'd likely heard his… frustration and excepted him to stay isolated for longer. And she would've been right. Owen had planned on staying in his apartment for the next two days before going back to work, but apparently, there was something so urgent that could not wait.

Owen walked out of his building, the sky was overcast but it hadn't rained yet. Owen hoped it didn't. He didn't have his umbrella and getting rained on might make him snap. He stuffed his hands in his coat and joined the rush of people on the sidewalk. It was midday, almost 3, yet the sidewalks were crowded with people. Tourist mostly.

It took Owen 15 minutes to walk to MI6 headquarters. He didn't get a cab. If Malcolm wanted him to come in quickly he should've gotten him a cab. Owen was happy to make him wait. The shiny exterior of MI6 loomed over him as he walked through the entrance. People dressed in fancy suits stared at him oddly, they were in administration and knew nothing about what it actually meant to be a spy. Owen felt a twinge of resentment and jealousy.

The secretary recognized him and greeted him cheerfully, but confused as she knew he was on a vacation. With a nod to her, he walked over to the elevators and pushed "Up". People bustled around him, two or three stopping near him and waited for the elevator too. A _ding _signified the elevator's arrival. After everyone on shuffled off Owen, being the gentleman he was, held the door for the other people entering the elevator. He stepped on last.

"Floor?" A balding man who could lose to skip dessert a few times asked. The stiff suit and shiny shoes told Owen he as an administration as were the two others in the elevators.

"18," Owen responded, leaning against the closet wall as the doors closed and the elevator began to rise.

It was silent for a moment before the balding man spoke again, with a faint chuckle. "Rough week buddy?"

Owen side-eyed him and saw his badge read "Benjamin Marsh: Human Resources". Owen thought that he was about as plain as could be. He responded after a few seconds passed, "You could say that."

"I would! You look about as bad as some of those 'spies'. Think they're so special, always requesting time off for 'mourning'. I mean, come on! They're spies. Isn't it, like, their jobs to be emotionless? Besides, what could they be mourning?"

Owen raised an eyebrow and the other two employees awkwardly shuffled as the elevator came to a stop on the 6th floor. One of the left with a look back. When the doors shut the man continued, seemingly spurred by the fact that no one had said anything.

"In fact, I just had a guy, Owen I think, ask for a week off, and you want to know why? 'Cause his partner died. A year ago. I mean seriously, get over it, dude."

The remaining employee coughed as the man silenced and the elevator continued in silence until Owen's floor. Right before the doors opened Benjamin asked, "Hey man, nice talk. I'm Ben Marsh by the way."

"Owen. Owen Carvour." Owen walked out of the elevator. He felt no happiness in seeing the shocked and red look on Benjamin's face. He was too tired.

Owen walked through lines of desks, some of the workers recognizing him and greeted him. The 18th floor was Public Relations. At least it was until you reached the back. An inconspicuous door was next to the general manager's office. If you tried to open it you'd find it locked and you be told it was just an extra conference room. In reality, it was a code locker door leading to the International Intelligence and Operations Department (the IIOD for shout). A fancy way of saying "The spy department". Only PR works knew where they were located, other employees just knew they were in the building.

Opening the hidden panel in the wall Owen typed in is access code and waited for the door to unlock. Entering the IIOD was a changing in pace. People were rushing around, their work being very time-sensitive. Owen got odd looks as he walked through the department. Most of them had never seen him in anything but formal wear. Most of them didn't even know _why_ he took a vacation. It was classified (which means he doesn't like sharing about his personal life). Owen ignored everyone as he walked to the back of the office where Malcolm's office was.

Sitting in a corner with a shiny plaque proclaiming "Head of International Intelligence and Operations" was Malcolm's office. Owen knocked on the oak door and entered when told to. Malcolm's office was a modest thing, two armchairs sat in front of his oak wood desk. He had a shelf of books and nicknacks to the left and a mini-refrigerator and coffee maker on the right. Owen sat in the chair on the right. He slumped in the seat. Malcolm raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'm on vacation. I'll sit however I please."

Malcolm nodded and picked up a file. "Thank you for coming in Owen. Even if you did take half an out."

Owen rolled his eyes and sat up straighter in his seat. "Whatever this is, better be good."

Malcolm set the file down and sid to towards him. Owen picked it up and looked at the front page. Looked like a typical Identification sheet expect that the picture was just a drawing.

"Owen, have you ever heard of the Deadliest Man Alive?"


	8. We’re Not so Bad

**A/N: You'd think that after more than 3 weeks in quarantine I'd have finished this story or something. You'd be wrong. Whoops**

* * *

Curt rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall as Dr. Baron Von Nazi rambled on about his plan to bring the Nazis back to power. Curt is fairly sure this guy is a psychopath. Curt had a healthy dislike of Nazis, his years in the Secret Service teaching him that much. But this was his job and he was determined not to fuck it up. Curt cringed at the thought of what Chimera might do if he messed up. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be pretty.

"So, vat do you zink?" Nazi asked with a pleased smile. Curt forced one in return. He thought that the plan was stupid, but that wasn't his call. Chimera wanted Nazi's tech, nothing else. Oh, and the largest amount of pure, unmined silicon for said tech. But the tech first.

"I think you should plan on building an 'HQ' when you take over," the Deadliest Man Alive chimed in. He was lounging in a chair in front of Nazi. Curt was leaning against the wall to the left of DMA, absolutely bored out of his mind.

"Brilliant!" Von Nazi exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air with a bright smile on his face. "Then ze people vill know ve are serious."

DMA hummed in agreement, casting an unamused look at Curt. While they didn't get along great, they both agreed on one thing; Von Nazi was a dumbass. A dumbass who was going to get himself killed soon after starting his 'master plan', something that would be very annoying to Chimera.

"So, we're in agreement then?" DMA while crossing his arms over his chest.

"Da! Ve shall begin our partnership immediately!"

"Joy," DMA muttered under his breath, reaching into his coat for paperwork. "Just sign 'ere and we'll begin."

Without a second thought, Von Nazi grabbed a pen and signed his name. He didn't glance at the papers. Curt and DMA shared a look, this guy just kept getting more stupid. DMA quickly handed the papers to Curt, just in case Von Nazi had more brain cells then excepted and they were just on a delay. DMA stood up and shook hands with Von Nazi, a grimace hidden as a smile on his face.

"Zis is going to be vonderful!"

"It sure is," DMA agreed with a predatory grin. Releasing hands with Von Nazi DMA closed his jacket and place his hands in his pockets. Curt stepped forward, intent on saying his farewells to Von Nazi so he could leave as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, it seemed the Von Nazi's brain was on a delay because right as Curt was about to extend his hand, Von Nazi exclaimed, "Oh! I just remembered! I 'ave someone I'd like jou to meet. Tatiana!"

Curt and DMA turned to the door in confusion. As far as they knew Von Nazi was working alone. Another player could throw a wrench in their plans. But a few seconds passed, and no one showed up.

Von Nazi cleared his throat nervously. "Heh, she must not have heard me. Tatiana!"

Curt, being closer to the door, heard a suffering sigh before the door open. Standing in the doorway was a clearly aggravated woman who stood with a hand on her hip and a frown on her face. Curt could see the lewd grin that spread on DMA's face. Curt supposed she was attractive, but she wasn't exactly his type. Besides, he was sure she would appreciate if at least one guy didn't stare at her like a piece of meat.

"What?" Tatiana asked harshly, her cold eye scanning Curt and DMA.

"Ah Tatiana, meet my new partners, Mr. Deadliest Man and Agent Curt Mega!"

"Hi," she deadpanned before looking at Von Nazi, "Can I go now?"

"Ah, come on now, zat is no vay to treat out guest," Von Nazi complained. Curt could see the murder in Tatiana's eyes. Curt and DMA shared a look, she could be useful if they knew what her motives were. Curt decided to step towards Tatiana, putting on his award-winning smile.

"Hi, the name's Curt Mega. It's nice to meet you," he greeted, holding his hand out. Tatiana eyed it warily but grasped it in her hand just long enough for a short handshake.

"And I'm the Deadliest Man Alive, but you can call me DMA, love," DMA flirted, grabbing Tatiana's still outstretched hand and quickly pulling it up to kiss her hand. Tatiana quickly pulled her hand away with a small 'ugh'. Curt stifled a chuckle. No matter how long he'd worked with DMA it was still gratifying to see him get rejected.

Apparently he didn't quiet himself enough because Tatiana shot him a confused look. Curt shrugged.

"So, Ms. Tatiana, how exactly did you come to work with Dr. von Nazi?" Curt asked, trying to break the silence that had come over the office. Curt had never been good with awkward silences, preferring to crack a joke and have people judge him instead of sitting in a stifling quiet.

"Ve 'ave come to an, ah, agreement," Von Nazi replied smugly. Tatiana radiated hate and Curt wondered for a moment if she was going to deck him. That would be awesome.

"Yes," Tatiana, agreed sourly, "an 'agreement'."

DMA hummed curiously. "An agreement? For what exactly?"

"Ah jou know, the usual. She vorks for me, I kept my trap shut, yes?"

Ah, that's why Tatiana was pissed. She wanted nothing to do with this man and his operation. That's good. She wasn't really loyal to Von Nazi so she wouldn't be a problem when it came to subduing him. Curt had a feeling she might even offer to help.

"Well the more the merrier," Curt commented, putting a smile on his face. He did have a reputation to keep after all. The number of people that underestimated him if he just acted a bit more happy-go-lucky than the average person was astounding. Besides, doom and gloom were never a good fit for Curt.

"Yes, yes it is," DMA agreed, heading to the door, winking at Tatiana again. "I look forwards to out next meetin' even more now."

"As do I!" Von Nazi enthusiastically agreed, clearly not understanding DMA's drift.

Curt cast a suffering look at DMA. "Well it was great meeting you Dr Von Nazi. Tatiana."

Tatiana seemed to sense his sincerity and nodded at him, not looking ready to slit his throat for just look at her. Curt will take it.

God, women were terrifying.


	9. Might Be What I Need

Owen wanted to slam his head down onto the table and scream. Unfortunately, Owen was a 'professional' and therefore couldn't do that. He also cringed to think what Malcolm would do if he found out. Even an ocean away that man was intimidating.

Though Cynthia isn't much better, Owen thought bitterly, with her tendency to randomly shoot him to make sure he remembered his bullet-proof vest. And poison him. And stab him. And- well you get it.

God, he hated it here. A.S.S was a _very _fitting acronym.

Barb was standing across from him, waving her hands violently as she talked. Owen was vaguely worried that she might take out one of the many scientists that were around. But they seemed used to her antics and expertly dodged her.

Owen surveyed the table in front of him. There were several weapons disguised as every-day objects, including a pair of black-rocket shoes. That sent a stab of sorrow through Owen's heart. Maybe if Barb had made these three years ago Curt would still be alive.

No. That was not Barb's fault. It was Curt's sense of fashion and lack of common sense.

"So, what do you think Owen?" Bard asked excitedly.

"It's all very… inventive. Though I don't see the need for that number of guns," Owen replied honestly, leaning back in his chair, eyeing the pile of hidden guns. Barb just shrugged and muttered something about funding. "Though the dart-ring is quite interesting."

Barb perked up. "I know right? I figured it would help when it comes to infiltration in more fancy settings! Oh, that reminds me!"

Bard quickly turned on her heel and promptly crashed into a passing scientist. Barb jumped to her feet and continued to run away while the scientist sat dazed on the ground. Another scientist came over and pick him up and lead him over to another table.

Owen watched all of this in amusement. Back at MI6, this would've never happened. If one scientist knocked another over, they would be fired instantly. Owen had to admit the slightly more care-free atmosphere was nice. Probably was why Curt loved working here. He always did well in chaos.

Barb raced back with a slim black box in her hands, this time managing to dodge oncoming scientists. She placed it proudly on the table in front of Owen. She smiled at him, slightly out of breath from her sprint (and _why was she running, it wasn't like Owen had anywhere else to go_). Owen looked at the box in front of him. It was a plain black box maybe 40cm long.

"Well, go on. Open it!" Barb urged, pushing the box closer to him. Owen grabbed the lid of the box slowly, wary of any poison darts or electrical darts.

_I wonder how many new agents get hurt because of these demonstrations._

Owen opened the box part way, facing the opening away from him, just in case. When nothing happened, Owen relaxed before shrugging at Barb's confused look. Turning the box towards him, Owen fully removed the lid to see a… plain black tie. Oh God, please don't be another gun.

"A tie," Owen deadpanned. "You shouldn't have."

"It's not just a tie, silly," Barb scolded, gentle grabbing the tie and unfolding it. She held it in both hands and held the wide end towards Owen. "Look!"

Deciding that the probability of something popping out was slim, Owen leaned in, not quite sure what exactly he was looking for. It was a black-tie, nothing special that Owen could see. He looked up at Barb and shrugged. Barb sighed a little irritably, setting the tie onto the table. She scurried to a nearby table and grabbed a small vile. Owen looked at it warily, well too aware that poisoning co-workers wasn't uncommon at A.S.S.

Barb laid the tie on the table and put a pair of gloves on her hands. She carefully opened the vile and with a small pipette dropped a few drops of the liquid onto the end of the tie. Owen's eye widened as the spots were the liquid had touched turned a dark shade a blue, just barely visible on the black.

"Alright, I'm intrigued. What exactly caused the color change?" Owen questioned, leaning in closer to the tie to inspect it. He stopped, however, at Barb's quick 'stop!'. He leaned back and looked at her in confusion.

Carefully closing up the vile and removing her gloves, Barb spoke. "The end of the tie is laced with special fibers that change color when in contact with a set of poisons. It'll automatically break the poisons down, but I don't want you to touch it till the color goes away."

Nodding in understanding Owen watched as the blue slowly faded away. This was amazing. Owen thought of all the times where he'd been poisoned and had to make a quick getaway to cure himself. "So does it detect all poisons or?"

Barb chuckled and carefully folded the tie back into its box. "No silly, that would be almost impossible! Instead, we used the 15 most common poison used on our agents! Oh! It also can detect some drugs, but that's less precise. We mostly focused on mind-altering drugs and it can be so hard to get them all…"

Barb trailed off, probably thinking about all the trials for the tie. Owen spoke, "So are different poisons color-coded, or is it always blue?"

"It's coded!" Barb confirmed. "For example, blue is belladonna!"

"Well I have to say, that is one impressive invention Barb," Owen complimented, smiling softly at a flushing Barb. Barb ducked her head and mumbled something inaudible while pushing the box towards Owen. Owen grabbed the box and stood from his chair. He had a meeting with an informant, about the informant for his mission. Insane.

"Well, I've got to head out. Thank you for the tie," Owen said as he began to walk away.

"No problem!"

Just as he reached the door, Barb called to him from across the room, "Owen! About the drugs, it may not be fully accurate so be careful!"

Owen tossed his confirmation over his shoulder as he left, not paying it much mind since he doubted it would useful for his upcoming mission.

Tracking the deadliest man alive. Owen was bounded to get poisoned. Or shot. Or stabbed. Basically, everything that's already happened at A.S.S.


End file.
